


Rodney's Shoebox, Or, Five Ancient Artefacts Rodney McKay Never Admitted To Finding

by doomcanary



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ancient Technology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney has a cardboard box in the bottom of his closet, buried under a pile of discarded socks and out-of-date paperwork. He doesn't remember where the box came from - it seemed to just appear in there, as if decaying shoeboxes in the closets of inhabited rooms were a universal constant and this was merely the cosmos setting itself to rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rodney's Shoebox, Or, Five Ancient Artefacts Rodney McKay Never Admitted To Finding

Rodney has a cardboard box in the bottom of his closet, buried under a pile of discarded socks and out-of-date paperwork. He doesn't remember where the box came from - it seemed to just appear in there, as if decaying shoeboxes in the closets of inhabited rooms were a universal constant and this was merely the cosmos setting itself to rights. He doesn't tidy his closet often - doing so would be an affront to his masculinity - but every time he finally snaps and clears out the silt of cloth and paper to regain access to his hanging space, the box stops him cold. Today is no different; he sits down on the floor amid the heaps of requisition forms and old memos, drawing the shabby cardboard slowly across the floor. Inside the box are four small items, all made of the same patinaed metal as the city itself.

The first one is rounded and has a shell-like design etched into its surface. Rodney gives a soft chuckle, puts it on the floor and mentally switches it on. He watches it wake up, make a soft, interrogative _meep_ sound, and seek out his body heat. It nudges against his leg for a moment, then tentatively begins to explore its surroundings, humming softly along on a tiny blue-glowing force field. Rodney lets it play for a few moments, then captures it in one square palm and switches it off again. The technology it uses is really nothing new to Atlantis's scientists, but he knows for certain that the entire team would devolve into squealing incoherency if they got their hands on this thing; and quite frankly the mere thought of watching that happen horrifies him. Rodney is skeptical enough of the value of creatures like dogs and children - and anything else incapable of thinking rationally for itself - without actively promoting the same tendencies in his staff. His mouth quirks lopsidedly as he remembers that according to the expedition's ever-growing technology database, Artefact 367 is non-functional, but was probably a personal grooming tool.

Next comes the sex toy. Rodney is always tempted to roll his eyes at it; the thing is unmistakable, even with the finesse and heavy stylisation of Ancient design. It had taken him exactly twelve seconds to figure out how to switch it on, another ten to figure out the controls, three or four to be startled by the smoothness and power of the vibration, and at least another six to decide that this one was *never* leaving locked storage. Oddly, where that storage might happen to be was something he had never quite gotten round to deciding on; he's always a little surprised to find it's still in the box along with the rest of the unmentionables.

Well, all except Artefact 420. After the incident on the North pier, the entire Science team had unanimously agreed to his suggestion that 420, also known as Plinthzilla, should be struck from their collective history and never spoken of again. Its database entry was cooked up by a couple of the archaeologists; the text briefly describes its appearance, states that it unfortunately blew up on activation without leaving enough wreckage to discern its purpose, and speculates that it "may have been of ritual significance". Rodney doesn't know exactly what really happened to it, but suspects that a strike team of aggrieved biologists threw it into the ocean on a very dark night.

The third item in the box is the Telepathy Gizmo, which looks not unlike a headset. Considerable excitement had buzzed in the labs when the Ancient database had given up information about a device allowing mind-reading over a limited range; Rodney remembers going hot and cold at the same time as he read the minutes of the weekly artefact analysis meeting and the meaning of the attached schematic sank in. He'd instantly grabbed the ergonomic-looking trinket out of his drawer of unidentified junk, and pocketed it. Then he had fired off a furious email in reply to the minutes, pointing out that the schematic was clearly experimental and that in any case the science behind it was light-years beyond their current level of technology, rendering any attempt to construct a working prototype a waste of valuable time and resources. Rodney figured that if even he could work out exactly how paranoid about personal privacy the presence of a device like that in the city would make about 60% of the scientists, the reality of the situation was likely to be far, far worse. And really, though he still despairs of Elizabeth's lack of appreciation for the value of science as a discipline, he stands by his original judgement: not even she deserves to go six rounds with Kavanagh's bitching as *well* as the sincere, concerned and deeply pedantic complaints of most of the rest of his department. He tosses the Gizmo back into the box, where it clunks against the inert shell of the Justified and Ancient Aibo, and picks up the last object.

The fourth artefact is small, flat and tile-like, featureless on both its faces; it looks, in fact, entirely unremarkable. It had been accidentally activated by a Marine, and eventually brought to him by Zelenka, who assumed it was some kind of toy or curio. According to the notes he'd given Rodney, its only effect was to show you the face of one of your friends or colleagues, apparently chosen at random. At the time Rodney had discarded it, dropping it into the drawer with the rest of his Atlantean gadgets, but some days later his opinion had suddenly changed. In a bored moment while waiting for a simulation to finish, he'd begun to idly comb through the Ancient database, starting with a section which had been denuded by time and damage of the schematic diagrams showing what things actually looked like. Several minutes after that, his simulation beeping forlornly on the other side of the lab, he had been feverishly focusing every scanner they had on the little bronze-grey tile, searching for a particular pattern in its internal circuitry.

Rodney picks up the tile and lays it in the palm of his hand. He remembers the flash of emotion, almost like an electric shock, that had coursed through him when he finally saw that elusive pattern and confirmed the device's identity. And it was not long after that that he'd thrown it into the bottom of the closet along with all the other things he didn't want to think about too hard; like the USAF booklet on diplomacy during missions Sheppard had forced on him, and sometimes his underpants from yesterday's workout. The booklet is sticking out of the pile of discarded printouts that had been lying on top of the box; he fingers its crumpled cover, and thinks about Sheppard. About his angry intensity when Rodney pisses off yet another potential trading ally, his lazy charm, and the evanescent sense of belonging Rodney feels when Sheppard's around. About how long it had taken him to even work out that was what the feeling was. And he thinks about turning the device on. Just for a second, he really considers it.

What the device does is to show you, based on some extremely sophisticated DNA analysis and brain scanning techniques, the face of the one person in your social circle you're most likely to spend the rest of your life with. Rodney had carefully blanked from both his brain and his laptop everything Zelenka had told him about who had seen whom while experimenting with the device.

It's a long, long moment before he sighs, and drops the tile back into the box. Because the universe has never liked Rodney very much, and that square cold weight in his hand is the weight of something that might, once and for all time, tell him that there's no hope after all.


End file.
